


Lizard Brain

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Class Differences, Consensual Violence, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Power Play, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Choking a neck like Jensen's feels like a birth right.





	Lizard Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/gifts).



> B-day present for my boo. Remember us having co-boners over construction worker Jared and rich kid Jensen? Yeah. Me too.
> 
> Jared's sweet 22, Jensen's bitter 26.

There's thoughts you only have above ninety degrees. When your body has accepted that the heat is inevitable and will only ever get worse.

Mike is hollering for the soldering iron.

Thoughts like: I wonder how stones feel—no way to move, ever. Or, what it might feel like to poke someone's eye with a soldering iron. Or their knee. Or how it would be to be the one being poked.

Jared's brain is well-done pulp. He drinks more of his own sweat than water upon lifting his thermos to his mouth, and the boss' kid hasn't stopped staring at him.

Salamanders, unblinking. Jared has to turn every now and then, grab or pull or shove but those eyes are waiting for him, every time.

Only special breeds of dogs grow fur built for this kinda heat.

Kid's in a suit, white enough to make Jared's eyes tear up. No tie, unlike his Daddy; two buttons of his shirt popped. He's sweating, but nowhere near as drowning as Jared.

That haircut looks more expensive than the entirety of Jared's wardrobe. People are fucking gross.

Big Daddy drags his pup along, somewhere else. Junior doesn't exactly look like he doesn't want to be here. Isn't uninterested either, nods and smiles and shakes hands. His mama must be so proud.

The others have a smoke. Jared tries not to be itching. Tries to enjoy the stale lunch, tells himself it's this new kind of diet and that his abs never looked better. (True, true.)

Stones. Heat. Scales. Claws.

Bits of Jared are melting, day by day.

Aircon in the restrooms. Somehow, this is worse.

The Jared in the mirror has eyes that are too hard. Skin slick; oil, sweat, the general dirt. The lights are off—tech team hasn't made it yet. Everyone is off schedule. No big deal.

Jared pisses in silence, in darkness. Stands with his back to the door—hears it open, then close. Almost-silent footsteps and he's about to turn and see what is happening behind him when Boss Junior slips into his peripheral vision, against the wall right next to Jared.

Lizard eyes, again. On Jared's blank face, then down to his dick, and Jared doesn't feel like commenting, or speaking, or thinking.

Junior's draped against the tiles like a badly blown-up doll, hair long enough to curtain-fall into his lashes. Hands in his pockets, he just—watches.

Jared watches him watch. Those eyes come up before he's finished, calm and bright.

There might be justified questions to be asked, here, somewhere.

Jared shakes off the clinging drops, tucks himself away. Holds eye contact with Junior until he goes for the sinks, turns on the tap. When he's checking the mirror, Junior has his back turned, uses the urinal next to Jared's.

Jared leaves him behind. The air, outside, is buzzing.

~

Junior smokes. Idly, by the entrance. Dark blue suit today. Bluer tie.

He's smiling up at Jared, and there is a temptation to open his mouth, make a vulgar statement. But Junior ends up not following inside. Is still smoking when Jared's stepped back outside.

Jared slicked his hair back, in the bathroom. Blinks against sun and the kid's fingers, the flutter of those eyes when he inhales deep.

Junior licks his lip, angles his cigarette down and away, laughs too soft.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

Jared curls his lips over his teeth. Walks away, squared shoulders, and feels the heated ground right through his boots.

~

The Big Bang Theory is on. Molly's mouth is not available for a complaint.

“Ohgodohgodohgooooood—”

She's tiny, and Jared is a thorough boyfriend.

Lets her pull his hair into ponytails, afterwards, seated in his lap. Weird post-coital procedures Jared works on growing into. He's chewing cold pizza, comatose.

The fan plays with Molly's waist-long hair. She looks like a mermaid, like this.

~

He hasn't dared yet to give that watch more than a glimpse. Or, doesn't want to be _caught_ staring. To be conceived as jealous—because he isn't.

It's just. Fascinating.

It's the eighteenth and Jared has twelve dollars left to his name.

Junior's in white. Red shirt, weird material that shimmers purple. An eyesore.

Jared drinks endlessly, to stave off the hunger. Sweats and pisses and pisses and sweats. It's draining, falling right through him. One of the worse days.

Nod towards Junior's crotch.

“Can I have one?”

He raises his eyebrows but peels a smoke from his pocket anyway. Holds it out. Jared snatches it with a shaky hand.

“Thanks,” he mutters. Pats himself down, in an afterthought. Groans heavenwards.

That chuckle again. Shifting fabric and Jared's got a headache splitting his skull in two.

And then he's close, too close for Jared not to stumble away from. Is followed, though, with insistence.

“Hey. Wait. Here.”

Junior drags his knuckles over Jared's and he drags his smoke over Jared's, sucks until the cherry of it gleams and he smells like coffee, like Molly when her hairdresser friend was just over, and nothing like this place, or Jared.

He doesn't catch on to what this is until he's nudged once more. Almost-inhales the filter. Leans back because Junior's barely putting enough breathing space between them. The smoke burns, badly, and Jared sweats some more.

Something about the guy makes his skin pull tight, now, upon contact. Like something is wrong.

They're standing shoulder to shoulder, and Jared would rather eat his own hand than give him the satisfaction to be the first to look away.

Green eyes. Clean shave.

“What're you doing, after this?”

Call Meggie. Check on Dad. Help Molly with her school project; maybe get a blow job in return.

“Nothing,” shrugs Jared.

~

This feels a suspiciously lot like middle school. Or stealing. Or both.

“You can't wear that.”

Jared raises and drops his arms, lets them slap down his sides.

“It's what I have. Why?”

“Nevermind.”

“No, seriously, what? You wanna go for dinner o'something?”

Jared blinks through the last sunshine. How it hits the back of Junior's blond skull, his phone, his wedding ring.

“Ackles. Yeah, listen—I'll have to cancel tonight. Sorry 'bout that.”

He hangs up, gestures at Jared.

“You comin'?”

They're heading for the street. Junior flags down a cab—barely has his arm up before one floors the breaks for them.

“Woah. Wait.”

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

Junior blinks up, one leg already in the car. Says, “My place,” and Jared feels dumb. Too young. Clasps his backpack tighter.

The back of the car hardly accommodates both of them. Knocking shoulders, again, while Junior names a street Jared isn't familiar with, doesn't have interest in. He buries the urge to lift his arm, check the state of his BO. Knows he's got pit stains going, despite changing from work into day clothes ten minutes ago. Tied his hair up but feels it slipping out of shape already.

He sticks to looking out of the window.

~

Because it sounds stupid in his head already, he doesn't ask:

So, we fuck now or what?

Sits on this annual wage sofa in this too-baggy-too-ripped pair of jeans, lets himself be watched as he accepts and sips the offered drink. Something potent. Okay, why not. He needs all the buzz he can get.

There is no talking. Radio silence. Jared sniffs, just for the sake of it.

“So.” Jared scratches at his neck. Leans further into the cushions. “What now?”

Junior smiles into his glass.

“You just gonna stand there?”

“Maybe.”

Jared snorts. Takes another mouthful. “You're weird.”

“I guess.”

The guy sinks into a nearby armchair. Still in full suit, pointy leather shoes. He crosses his legs, effortlessly, elegantly.

“Be honest,” he says, “what do you think is gonna happen now?”

Jared half-shrugs. Feels the last of his hair falling loose. “Y'gonna ask me to get my dick out, I guess?”

Junior laughs, teeth and all. Jared smirks.

“You've been staring at it. Me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Does it turn you on? Watching another guy piss?”

He's still smiling, toothpaste ad edition. “Not necessary. But, sure.”

He sips his drink, otherwise doesn't move. Jared stands. Full-height, he's intimidating. Puts his drink down. Slow, slow walk over to Junior. Giving him time to either turn him down or on. But all Junior does is uncross his legs. Tips his head back so he can keep watching Jared's face.

“Say it.”

“What.”

“Say 'get your dick out. I wanna see it'.”

He's blinking, lazily. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Suck me off.”

He lowers his drink to the armrest. Lets the tips of his fingers linger on the rim. Stand-by. Eyes on Jared, unbroken.

“Get your dick out,” he says. Quietly, low. “I wanna see it.”

Jared's skin crawls, again.

(There is something undeniably frightening about that face. Polished porcelain. The good silver you only put out for funerals.)

Jared thumbs his fly, pulls the zipper down.

An offended, “It's not hard.”

“Make me, then.”

Junior is not looking into Jared's face anymore.

Reaches one hand out to cup Jared's balls, but Jared won't let go where he is pointing himself up; a clear instruction.

He's got a soft mouth. And for a minute, it feels just like Molly's.

There's aircon in here. The silent kind. Jared's nipples are hard enough to hurt—he hisses on a first accidental noise. The wet sorta pop that makes his tongue itch.

He slaps that mouth with it, hits home. Gets a startled pause, held-back gasp.

“C'mon,” Jared urges, “c'mon.”

He's good at going fast. Is porn-material, Molly says. Somewhat of a menace, if he's in the mood.

If Richie Rich bleeds dollar bills?

Junior coughs. Inhaled wrong.

Jared pushes against gums.

Reminds, “You took me here. You want this.”

Hears, “Yeah,” slurred and off, like a sigh.

“Then fucking do it right.”

Junior lets go of his drink for good, so he can grab the armrest. Has the other hand curled around the base of Jared's cock, death-grip to support all that weight. Drops his jaw so Jared can get in there, eyes closed and face redder now than it was in the outside heat.

Jared pushes farther when he hears him gag. Puts one hand on the back of that head in girlfriend-frenzy; intimacy that isn't _there_ , but he pushes, and no complaint ever comes.

Junior makes a violent noise—fights instincts so he can stay right where he is, farther down than Molly ever, ever was. Or, anyone.

Jared has to pull back.

Stares down, and is disgusted.

(It's—the lonely tear rolling down that cheek, the bubbling spit; cock-fat lips, gasping for breath.)

Frown, wild eyes.

“What the fuck. Keep going.”

“Not if you're throwing up on me.”

He snaps, “I'm not!” and Jared's knuckles connect nice, hurt like a bitch—both Junior and him. Junior's head snaps to the side with the impact, whips back front immediately. He gawps up, eyes and mouth wide, but he doesn't say a word.

Lets himself get yanked up by his arm, spun around, folded across the armchair's backrest. Chokes a stutter upon getting his arms twisted behind his back, his legs kicked apart. Trembles, because Jared knows how to use his weight. Is being buried, chest to back, and is pliant on an unhealthy scale.

Jared noses behind that ear, solely for show. For taking more, ignoring another boundary.

Junior turns his head just enough so Jared can see the glint of his teeth.

“Bet your girlfriend doesn't let you do this kinda shit.”

“What girlfriend.”

“Lucky guess.” His smile widens. “You look like the guy who'd have a girlfriend.”

“I'm not gonna say out loud what kinda guy you look like.”

Junior laughs. Jared smiles into his hairline.

“You hear that a lot?”

“Not really. No.”

Junior tenses his legs so he can push his ass up against Jared's cock.

Molly really, really isn't into anal.

Jared sneaks a hand between Junior and the armchair to get at his pants. Yanks them open, down, together with the underwear. Has two wrists crossed in one grip, and not a muscle is moving. Nudges his dick up that gash, rubs to find the prize and—angles in. Spits, when Junior jolts—once, twice. Smears it in-around with his thumb, before he pushes.

Molly would end him.

Junior holds his breath, like Jared.

Tries to thrash, then, once and weak, so Jared yanks him hard. He barks for that. A truly, honestly painful noise.

“Ohgod. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

One hand back to that head, pressing down, muffling the uproar. The other anchored on those wrists, arms, and he snaps his hips. Forces in, in.

Jared is bursting at the seams.

It hurts. Dry, tight. His eyes tears up, and he shudders a wet breath. Slams in deep before he pulls out, all the way.

Junior groans ugly at that.

Jared steps back, wipes one palm over his face, grabs his cock with the other.

“... We need lube.”

“Asshole.”

Jared goes for the kitchen sink to wash the shit off his hand and dick. Sees Junior limping to what he assumes is the bathroom. Distant noises, from there. Jared splashes water into his face, combs his hair back with the slick of it. Junior returns armed with a pump bottle. Shed everything but his ugly-ass button-down.

Glares at Jared, maybe a little paler than he was before. Lip and cheek starting to swell, redden.

“Ya need a written invitation or something?”

Jared snorts and struts over. Junior is already bending over, head on his arms. Curve of his stuck-out ass. Water-damp, a little red.

Jared fists his cock, looks down at it. The peek of naked feet on white glossy tiles. Ginger fuzz on that ass, the backs of those thighs.

Palmful of lube. He smears the rest right onto him, feels him flinch from the cold. Wedges a finger in just because he knows it hurts.

Jared lowers himself anew, steps closer. Junior is almost-cold under him. His ears are tipped crimson. Jared runs his lip along the shell of one.

“What would Daddy say if he saw you like this?”

A whimper, when Jared thumbs the crown back in. A squirm when he lets inches follow, too many too soon.

Jared puts a hand on that lower back. Presses down for a deeper arch. Feels sweat-slick cold of skin, the pulse of raw insides burning him up. Blows into Junior's ear, shuffles his feet forward until he feels skin against his pubic bone, his balls. Junior grunts. Too full to speak.

Jared's dizzy. Nuzzles that neck, wraps arms around the unusually firm middle. Plucks one of those diamond-peaked nipples and gets his cock milked for it.

“Fuck,” he slurs. “You're so small.”

Rubs lips over skin before he bears down and sinks his teeth in. Starts pumping his hips then, and holds the guy tight. Groans, “Shut up,” and, “Keep still.” Bites, again; the other side. Locks his jaw here. Feels like some dog anyway.

Holds on, eyes closed. Junior tries hard to swallow his own voice, and Jared wishes he wouldn't. Wants him to lose it, over Jared. Jared can be an asshole, if he wants to.

Sweet sobs whenever their bodies smack together. Almost too much lube; Jared feels it sopping down his balls. Hopes it'll drip all over the goddamn spotless floor.

He pulls Junior back with the grip around his middle—exaggerated line, easier to use. Slaps ass and thighs to make him step his legs together, and purrs when Junior complies. Flicks nipples and chest because it gives his dick butterflies.

“I bet you're so fucking hard right now. Fucking filthy piece of shit.”

Jared grabs between those legs, Growls his laugh, and grazes teeth where it's already bruising nice.

“That's all you need, huh. That's all you ever need.”

Junior replies in goosebumps. In throaty groans, edging on snarls. Squeezes Jared's cock like he's being paid for it.

Eyes closed. Heavy tongue. He thumbs over the wedding ring, blindly plunges into a mouth, feels over a tongue. Switches to squeezing it shut instead, other hand pinching that flaring nose closed right along. Buries Junior hard into the furniture. Smothers out anything but the violence of their (his) fuck.

Jared can hear the glass vase shuddering, over on the coffee table.

He comes just as the flailing begins, the heavy bucking, survival. He pulls out one throb too late, shoots the rest over freckles, dimples, seam of silk. Lets that mouth go to get a hand on himself, wring out the last of it. Feels his hand cramping but keeps that nose caught tight.

He'd crush Molly, collapsing like he does here. Breathing hard and stumbling, mindless nips of teeth on skin. All Junior does is breathe a little less.

Jared retrieves his hand. “Stay down.”

He's motionless. Stretched out—dirtied. Jared wipes his palm on that shirt and hopes it will have to be trashed, after this.

He doesn't bother tucking his dick away until he's tanned the guy's ass and backs of thighs to match the carnage of his hole. He's shivering, but still. Knees locked, barely, and wobbles dangerously when Jared spreads his cheeks, whips three down until Junior's bucking, sobbing. Then, a few last times.

Junior drops forward on the releasing clap to his ass. Snorts when Jared chuckles.

Jared rinses hands, face and dick, again, in the kitchen sink. Splashes extra, for the stainless steel. Watches, from this safe distance, how Junior hefts himself up. Tests his legs. Sighs. Stretches. Rubs at his face. He eventually limps to one of the sideboards; pulls out a pack of smokes. The shiner is starting to bloom nicely.

He tucks a cigarette into the good corner of his mouth and drags himself to the balcony doors. Just ajar, he begins to smoke, leaned against the doorframe for support.

Jared shuffles over to him. Reaches out, without comment, receives a cigarette, without comment. Feels watched, so he keeps his eyes on the skyline.

“What's your name?”

Jared rubs at this nose. Shrugs, “Jay.”

Junior says, “Cute.” Touches his neck and winces. His shirt is unbuttoned. Ruined. “So.”

“Mh.”

“Can I have your number, 'Jay'?”

~

You'd think her place would smell more like Jared, given the years they spent here together. But she's all there is.

He has her cradled to his chest and looks through the TV screen. His right hand hurts like a bitch.

He kisses her hair. She snores oh-so softly.

~

“You ever _not_ wear one of those fucking suits?”

“Nurse costumes. On Fridays.”

Junior blows his smoke sideways. Jared tries not to stare too hard at the infected split on that porn-lip.

“What did the missus say?”

“'Cause of this?”

Jared swallows, because Junior bares his not-so-white white collar neck.

That's his DNA, right there.

Junior slips his shirt back in order, shrugs, rubs his pinkie over his eye.

“She's not in town, so.”

“You don't worry. Like, at all. Do you?”

Junior teeth-smiles. “Turns you on, huh?”

He sobs brokenly, like clattering teeth. Like a too-cold winter. Holds his middle and doesn't expect the kick between his legs. He throws up almost instantly.

Jared keeps that face pressed into the self-made puddle. Likes him spluttering on concrete. Brought his own lube this time, again no condom. Contemplates pulling out. Ends up chafing that belly bloody.

He says to call him Jensen. Or Jay. They can both be Jay, right? Some cousin used to call him that, for simplicity's sake.

He cranes his neck, shudders hard, when he realizes he's being creamed full. Jared rocks minutely, insistently. Jensen rolls over, later, out of the various stains. Leaves new ones.

Jared's always dripping sweat, but the concrete drinks that up clean.

Black, and red. Cloudy pink. Like grade school strawberry milk.

Jensen wipes himself down with Egyptian cotton socks as white as his teeth (bloody as his teeth).

Molly noticed the smoke, but not the newfound cold.

“Can I piss on you?”

“Excuse me?”

“As if you haven't thought about that.”

Jensen frowns, child-adorable. Wrinkles the new scab on his temple like that.

“You can't piss on a Cavalli, man.”

“A white one.”

Jared tilts his head, beds it on his shoulder. Dips away ashes, thirty floors above the ground.

“Wear something white. I want you to be soaked until your skin shines through.”

“You get off on some weird fucking shit.”

Jared smiles. “You're gonna do that for me,” and the sun is setting slow.

~

The first time they do it on an actual bed, Jared has a minor melt-down. Which he glosses over, he hopes, rather convincingly.

White sheets. All white.

Jensen's got freckles down to his toes. He's good at eating ass, but better yet at getting his ass eaten.

Choking a neck like Jensen's feels like a birth right.

Jensen cannot only take a beating—he revels in it. Like a junkie getting his methadone, and Jared is his candy man.

“Let me. Let. Me.”

Jensen's head shakes from left to right and back, quick, with Jared's thumb digging in under his jaw, with four-and-a-half fingers angling for five and a wrist.

That Jared already came is obsolete by now. His cock is purple decay, a violent throb of all that tar Jared keeps.

He jostles his arm. Twists. Pushes. He's going nowhere until he's got what he wants.

Jensen cries when it happens, and he cries louder when Jared gets the hang of it.

He doesn't look alive enough to smoke, but sophisticatedly ignores that. Belly-down, unmoving but for his eyes, breath. Minimal radius of his hand—mouth, an inch away, mouth.

It's always a different place. Different building. Part of town. But always high-class. Seemingly untouched. Reflects every grain of dirt under Jared's nails, every inch of too-tanned skin. He leaves long, bristle hairs—in sinks, pillows.

He doesn't belong here. Is brass, at best, rusty and bumpy and he can feel it.

If hurting Big Boss' kid wasn't this satisfying, it'd just be sad.

He slurs something, too muffled to hear. Looks up at Jared when he is barked at to speak up, and repeats: “Wanna hear something funny?”

Jared squints through the blue of the night.

Watches Jensen smack his lips, when no answer comes, how he sucks on his smoke like it's the only thing that keeps him awake at this point.

Hears, “I'm gonna be a dad,” with careful pronunciation.

~

How to get through today: tell yourself that hardship steels you (hardship steels, hardship steels).

Tomorrow is a new day. Everything looks better in the daylight.

She's waiting by the street corner. Plucks her headphones out on sight and waves with the takeaway bag. She squeals upon being lifted and spun, Hollywood style. Even though Jared is no DiCaprio, no Clooney. Maybe Tree#2.

Molly's tiny hand looks even tinier picking at the ripped denim barely-covering Jared's knee. Cat-with-the-cream smile, watching him eat. She can't afford a dog, but she has Jared.

“Y'know what? Let's go for a beer tonight.”

“Babe—”

“My treat.”

Jared makes a face. She rubs his knee more insistently.

“C'mon,” she urges. Squirms as always, her colorful necklaces kissing each other. “Let's just do it. We haven't been out in so long.”

“...I'll pay you back.”

“Bullshit,” she decides and winks like some real pimp.

It's not easy—letting go. To allow yourself to be soft when actually you cannot afford it.

Alcohol helps. Makes him tired, pliant, loopy. She pulls him down for minute-long kisses, tucked away at some bar, just another couple in a crowd, and Jared can just—breathe.

Cups her baby face, rubs their mouths together; whispers, “I love you so fucking much.”

This isn't the first night he makes secret wild plans of somehow (anyhow) scraping together enough money for a ring. Even though Molly isn't a diamond girl by any means. Would take him without anything, probably.

“Love you too, Papa Bear.”

Jared gurgles his laugh. Hides in her nape.

~

Molly swears on the herbal tea mix her nana mails every other week. It's hella pungent, and Jared used to get sick from the smell. Now, it's just another puzzle piece to 'home'.

“You ever think about kids?”

She turns towards him, spoon clinking in her cup. The fairy lights exaggerate her frown.

“I'm just asking,” he says.

“...Is this another one of your sex things?”

“What? No. I.” He sighs. Is too tired to stretch right, or get up to brush his teeth, or to pee. “Just thinking out loud.”

She returns to their bed. Sits down, on her loose hair. Narrows her eyes at him.

“Do _you_ want any?”

“No. Jesus. No.”

“Good. Phew.”

He laughs.

She sips her tea, smiling again. Eyes him, gently.

“Maybe by the time you're forty, and I'm the best paid artist in the world. Then. _May_ be.”

“Most famous. Most _talented_ , angel.”

She rubs his slowly stubbling cheek. “Don't be stupid. Talent's got nothing to do with money.”

 


End file.
